Sitting folded up like a pretzel
Holds hands onto ankles
Back to the wall.

When he first spoke of her
Weeks ago,
He beat his chest – without noting
His own Mea Culpa
Crossing arms over wounds newly dressed:

Unfolded,
Stood up straight;
This is a tall man
Head to toe full six feet of space.

Here and now,
Pretzel small,
Holding hands onto ankles.

Keeping it 

In (Yes, mother) 

While his story lets
Off steam,
Like the vent tube on the
Pressure cooker.

Nose open to the smell of
Love,
Down on our knees we fall
Praying for Redemption,
Salvation,
Deliverance.

So much weight
On that whiff of scent…

Love masters us all,
Replete with bittersweet
Imperfection.